maybe we're too far gone to care
by broken melody x
Summary: " We're broken. No one wants a broken ornament."-"We're not fragile or beautiful enough to be ornamental." / Draco, Hermione, and falling. Oneshot.


**maybe we're too far gone to care**

**AN: Yes, I'm back! We're starting the new writing season with a nice, angsty Dramione. xx**

* * *

_You lie awake sometimes_

_can't sleep_

_thinking about_

_her_

_(and sometimes you wonder)_

_if she's lying awake_

_can't sleep_

_just thinking about_

_you_

.

You walk up to the astronomy tower, every night, and-

It's pitiful, almost.

Ordinary.

And horribly clichéd.

You don't mind, though; how could you? When your mind is always drowning, drowning, suffocating, and it's forcing your head under the surface and cramming you into a too-tight box; suffocating, of course, _of course_. Always.

You live in a too-small box, and it's got a padlock, the chunky kind.

But your father swallowed the key the first time he hit you.

.

There's always a fairy, in fairytales.

Fitting, you suppose.

There's not really much to think of, here, where you're crammed into your box and you're burning to death from smoldering eyes, smoldering flames, just smoldering. Never ending.

And when your fingers brush, there's electricity, and smoke, and you're suffocating even more, choking, because it's stifling and painful; and you might just burn to death from the smallest of touches before you can suffocate at all.

.

The whiskey you drink brings you closer to it.

And hell, she tries to stop you; there's an irony in the way she seems to care so much for you when really, she's just killing you faster.

Hermione Granger wasn't meant to be the one to look for your key.

She wasn't meant to find it, either.

.

Footsteps; it's her, of course. Always her. Only her.

You're content to die in her eyes.

It's terrible, really, how _plain _you both are.

If you wipe out the cane-bruises and the candle-flame-burns, you're all right.

She is a butterfly, and she's got _tiny _wings that look like they might catch fire any moment.

Just like you.

Fire-and-fire.

You aren't going to last.

"We're broken, aren't we?" she whispers, sitting, on the edge, just like you. This is toying with death, teasing it, and it's at the edge; waiting for one of you to _fall _so death can catch you, and you'll be out. Gone. Not with a flame. Just…with an idiocy induced by the firewhiskey, falling, a flame snuffed out.

"Maybe we're too far gone to care," you whisper back, like it's a secret. You offer her the bottle, and she takes it, and drinks, and shudders.

"But broken glass always cuts the deepest when you try to fix it," she murmurs, staring at the stars, and your entwined hands.

You laugh, and it's the heartless, cold kind of laugh.

"Haven't you learned anything? I don't want to be fixed." You reply.

"But I want to fix you anyway," she whispers, and then you're kissing, and you taste the whiskey on her lips, and it's electric; and you're rough and unyielding, and you _swear _there are fucking _sparks _wherever you touch her skin, and you take her face in her hands and push her lips apart.

You don't know how long you're kissing for.

You don't really care, either.

You just know that this is how you want to slip out (because you will slip out) with her face flushed and her lips swollen and you know _you _did it, and she's breathing quickly, quickly, short shallow breaths that turn into clouds when they leave her mouth.

"What the hell was that?" she asks, and she's furious.

"I don't know."

"You don't have any right to just _kiss _me! You-"

"Granger," you say, and it's not a shout- it's the opposite- but she's silenced like the charm that you would have resorted to had she not listened, and you love the _control_. "I'm not sure why you're acting, but I'll tell you this…you're worse than I thought at pretending you didn't enjoy it."

You say it slowly, lazily, drawling, and you love watching her face.

She isn't beautiful.

She's just…plain.

But both of you are.

And both of you are burning, burning-

But you have a feeling you're going to fall first.

And it won't end the way you want it to, with _her_ (you're not sure why you want her in your eyes before you die) because it never ends on a perfect line.

"Stop thinking about death," she orders.

"It's hard not to think about what you're surrounded by. I have to do this."

"Don't." she whispers.

"I'd rather die than kill."

"I'd rather you do neither," she retorts.

"So would I: and that might happen in a perfect world."

"But it's not a perfect world."

"So it's die or kill. I'm a coward, Hermione! Dying is the easy way out!"

"Don't die like this."

"People like us, Granger, have four choices for death. Burning, suffocating, drowning, or falling."

And you know it's true; you know that you might burn, or suffocate, easily if you kiss again, and you might drown, if you don't. And while you're here, inviting death so easily, falling seems like the easiest option. You're too numb to feel anything but her kisses (but you've only kissed once); wouldn't falling be the easy option?

"Just think about it," she whispers. "You want to live. Think of what your parents would say, what your friends-"

"I told you, Granger. We're broken. No one wants a broken ornament," you say harshly.

"We're not fragile or beautiful enough to be ornamental," she retorts.

And then you're stumbling, and you know you leaned too far forward, and she grabs you, and it's _not enough_, never enough, and there's something crystal on her face, and it just might be a tear, and you stare at the glint and the promise of _more_ and you're so glad you didn't suffocate-

.

_You slip away sometimes_

_can't bear it;_

_can't bear thinking about_

_her_

_(and just before you slip out, you wonder)_

_if she'll be lying awake, after you're gone_

_crying silent tears for_

_you_

_._


End file.
